


Do you feel the hunger, does it howl inside?

by CinnamonRollHughDancy (aaronwarnerisabeautifulstorm)



Series: in blood we are bound, we are reborn [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), The Path (TV)
Genre: A+parenting, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Andrius Simoneit - Freeform, Angst, Complicated Relationships, Hallucinations, Hannigram - Freeform, Longing, M/M, Murder Husbands, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Incest, Pining, Slow Burn, Soulmate AU, The Wendigo - Freeform, True Love, Unhealthy Relationships, Unresolved Sexual Tension, as soon as i start to get a clue of where i want this to go, cal's wonderful childhood, identity crisis, kind of, major character deaths but like in the past too?, mentions of past rape, murder & crime, or not?, past underage stuff, the feathered stag, the timeline is all over the place, twisted and fucked up as it is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 18:55:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7000438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aaronwarnerisabeautifulstorm/pseuds/CinnamonRollHughDancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My name is Cal Roberts- I repeat like a mantra in my head-My name is Cal Roberts. I’m in Upstate, New York. and it’s 8:30 pm. My name is Cal Roberts. I’m in Upstate, New York and it’s 8:30 pm. My name is-<br/>My name is Will Graham. I’m in Baltimore, Maryland and I’ve been losing time."</p><p>Cal Roberts, current leader of The Meyerist Movement, has always struggled with his inner and outside demons (with some more than others) unbeknownst to everyone in the compound and he's just fine with that. Through tries and failures he's managed to find a way to keep himself under check and with a relative balance in his life. Right until  the moment it all goes awry and recent events reveal a part of himself he never wished to uncover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do you feel the hunger, does it howl inside?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, there!! This is me, aaronwarnerisabeautifulstorm, being completely, entirely self indulgent writing my first multi-chaptered fic for these fandoms. I started writing this monster after watching No Refugees so it's a sort of canon divergence from that point onwards but I will definitely add some aspects from the last episodes for character development/background and stuff. This idea came from my need to find a Mads character that would fit Cal and when no one came to mind I decided to create my own character. Yep, it's as weird as it sounds though it will make sense once you read I swear! Given that I don't want to spoil anything, I'm just going to say that the timelines in this fic have no paticular order, it's all mixed up like scrambled eggs. For real, one could be the present, other the past, other a memory and so on.
> 
> Also, English is not my main language, I don't live in America either hence there will most likely be grammar mistakes and I apologize deeply for that. As you see I'm in desperate need for a beta (I don't have one D:). If anyone wants to volunteer as a tribute, I mean to be my beta, please contact me :)
> 
> Anyway, without much further ado, keep reading :D!!
> 
> (Title inspired by the original song Become The Beast from Karliene who's awesome, I recommend x1000 listening to it while reading)

_“Once you have killed, you will find yourself desiring to do it again. The damage is done, dear Will. It’s in your nature. And I believe you already have-“_

_“Shut up!” I say, imprinting the shape of my nails on the palms of my hands. I can’t deal with this, with you, so soon. T his cannot be happening. This isn’t real. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that when I open them you will be gone like the supposed figment of imagination you have to be, that I need you to be because if you are not , in fact, the product of my mind playing tricks on me… then I don’t know what I’ll do._

_Even with my eyes closed, I can feel your presence-larger than life, filling every corner and space of the room, sucking the life out of it. Out of me. Your darkness spreads around me, touches me, makes its way inside the pores of my body, claiming, no, demanding my attention and I’m powerless to it. I’ve always been powerless to the hold you have on me. Still I fight. I don’t open my eyes, and keep my back turned on you, shoulders squared in a defensive stance._

_My name is Cal Roberts, I repeat like a mantra in my head, My name is Cal Roberts. I’m in Upstate, New York. and it’s 8:30 pm. My name is Cal Roberts. I’m in Upstate, New York and it’s 8:30 pm. My name is-_

_My name is Will Graham. I’m in Baltimore, Maryland and I’ve been losing time._

_My name is Will Graham. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what time is it._

_My name is Will Graham. I’m in Quantico, Virginia and I’m being charged for murders I did not commit._

_My name is Will Graham. I’m in Bloomington, Minnesota and Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper_

_(my anchor was my downfall all along)._

I wake up in sweats and nightmares for what it feels like the twentieth time of the week and the accusatory whisper of ‘encephalitis’ in my ear further proves that things are not under my control.

I made an appointment with a neurologist a month ago, at the same time it started. The results were (disappointing) clear as day: I’m in perfect health condition. That is why when the words come unbidden at the oddest times (not just the words, the memories, the experiences, the feelings of a stranger who wears my face) I know-

Something has to happen.

Something has to change.

* * *

 

I walk decisively into the building, trying to project on the outside the attitude of strength and confidence that I do not have. Not right now. This is not a new development; it began with the death of a dream and a man in a coma and ended with a ceramic shard on my hand and arterial spray reshaping who I thought I was-my perception of the world.

And now I know with dooming certainty, as I walk the path right into damnation, every step taking me further down the rabbit hole where I know I will meet my end and my beginning, that there is no Light. I am no ‘chosen son’. I am not going to be saved from The Future and taken into The Garden. There’s not even a Garden to take shelter in or a Future to be afraid of. There’s only an alcoholic, isolated man filled with stupid faith in a hopeless, meaningless cult who believed he was greater than the crowd when in reality he was just another nobody; and a man that no matter the circumstances will always remain the same flamboyant, dangerous, unpredictable, dignified person he once was.  A man who is as flawed as the first, a perfect equal and opposite.

Both men just as lonely.

Both alone without each other.

That is something that I have come to understand the more the situation back at the compound flies out of my hands. I’ve never felt like I belonged. I’ve tried really hard to fit in and in the process managed to fool everyone, including myself that I actually did. Except that now, the stitches and the cuts-the parts where I have sewn my person suit closed (where have I heard that before?) so anyone won’t notice the ugly inside- are starting to rip open. I have lied, I have relapsed, I have hurt, I have envied, I have wanted, I have been hurt, I have abused, I have taken advantage, I have ruptured, I have severed, and now, I have killed. How far am I willing to go? Have I always been this lost? How long until I reach my breaking point (if I haven’t already)?

There is just one answer. That I will find once I have met with the man that holds the every key to my every door. The catalyst for a myriad of possibilities and not all of them necessarily _good_.

* * *

 

I was ten years old the first time it happened.

I had seen by then enough movies, heard enough conversations between grownups to understand what had transpired that day. In a sick way, I’m glad for it. I can’t begin to imagine what it would have been like had I been completely innocent-I can picture the horrified look of disappointment and betrayal on my face, when I inevitably found out how truly rotten the world was. Not that the experience wasn’t traumatic enough as it was but the loss of innocence, I think, would have been the last straw.

For as long as I can remember, my father had always been a very dedicated alcoholic. Way more invested into the alcohol business rather than taking care of his kid and his just as alcoholic wife who was no fit in any form to be a parent. Actually, he was pretty bad too thought not as bad as her. Never. Until my ninth birthday came around. At the time, we had been four years inside The Meyerist Movement and I couldn’t have been happier, being away from home was a blessing, I was so desperate for any kind of relief that the kind hand of Steven Meyer was the best thing that had ever occurred to me. Because despite appearances and his ramblings of being saved by Steve and The Movement, dad was still the same bum, worthless man drowning at the bottom of a glass. Still hurled insults at my mother, still pushed me around, still the reason why I was forced to wear long sleeves, and he was only getting worse.

Honestly, that should have been the first clue that Meyerism was a fucking lie. People just can’t be saved, especially not by some random group of druggies.

But I was too naïve to see. Too young to have my dreams shattered once again. I ignored facts, kept living the dream. Desperate to believe in something greater than this pathetic world.

Then it happened.

One faithful day, my father, pissed drunk and fuming, arrived at our little house in the Meyerist Compound. I should have been in bed, sleeping like a ‘good boy’ but after being neglected for the entire day I just wanted to have some fun. I had stayed up late, watched TV, ate things that normally my father would never let me have. Even now, I keep wondering what would have happened if I had done what I was supposed to do, if I had slept locked up in my room like I did every night and unfortunately that day I didn’t. I wonder if I would be different from the broken mess of a man I am right now. Though, I don’t think so. In the end, you will always be what you’re meant to be, what you were born to be. Nature prevails on top of everything else.

Nonetheless, I’m pretty sure I could have lived on happily without _this._

I remember the acrid smell of his stale breath as he yelled, his exhalations brushed my cheek. I remember the punishing grip of his fingers around my skinny arms leaving more bruises that I would struggle to explain much later. I remember the tremble of fear in my voice, trying to stammer a coherent apology but he had none of it, screaming over me. He said I was a worthless little shit. I said that I was sorry. He said that at least I could be useful for once in my life. I screamed. I never stopped screaming through the entire night and because of that, I got well acquainted with the pillows of the master bedroom. That was the first time in my life that I truly prayed.

As my father ripped the clothes off  me, as I sobbed and clawed at him to get him to stop, a million thoughts running over my head, confusedly trying to understand what could I have possibly done to deserve it, I prayed for salvation. I prayed for blood. I received no response; no one came to my rescue. Not even when my I got thrown on the bed, nude and sprawled or when the pain became so intense I disassociated during most of the act, glaring blankly at the wall with dried tears on my cheek and my face shoved in the pillows. However, I do remember hearing a voice that was neither mine or my dad’s or anyone else I had ever known. It was familiar and unfamiliar. It was safe and unsafe and I remember clinging to it like a lifeline, as if it could save from falling into the darkness that threatened to take me away.

Accented, deep and definitely male. Soothing, velvety, sophisticated with equal allure and danger alike.

I couldn’t make sense of the words but I didn’t care. It was all semblance of sanity I had left and when morning came and I found myself in my dad’s bed covered in sweat and other fluids I didn’t want to think about, it helped me get through the rest of the day. It helped me get up, to ignore the abysmal pain drumming on my lower back and then it helped me limp my way slowly to the bathroom where I threw up until my throat was even sorer and the only thing that would come out of my mouth was saliva.

After that time, it became a normal occurrence.

Years went by and somehow, I learned how to just lay there and take it. I learned that I wouldn’t have to deal with dislocated shoulders or broken limbs if I just got used to it and by the time I was 16, I was a champion at pretending to be a sex doll. Mostly thanks to the fact not only I dissociated, but I started hallucinating too.

On all fours, eagle spread, his heavy weight on my back, a film of sweat on my body-between the slide of his pelvis behind me and the oppressing force of his hands on hipbones I would look up at The Eye on the wall and picture me sitting on top of my dad’s lap, straddling him, hands wrapped around his throat and just pressing and pressing, watching his face change colors. The look of horror on his face an exquisite appetizer as the life drained from his eyes, as the flood of air was cut short from his windpipe and the same voice whispered softly in my ear: “ _Intimate”._ The combination of the two, the mysterious voice that kept me sane and the promise of sweet, liberating death were what would lead me to climax. Dad would claim I was a slutty bitch hungry for cock and I would think of my wobbly fingers deep inside his bowels, twisting and crushing the organs with sweet satisfaction, blood dripping onto the mattress and staining everything red and even if it only happened in my mind it was-

Those were not the kind of thoughts Steve would approve of. Or anyone in the Movement for that matter so I’d usually end up on my knees praying for forgiveness because I wished for the death of a man who made every second of my existence plain miserable. Of course no one knew, but I bet if they had known they would have been very sympathetic of my situation. They would understand why I wanted to kill my dad. But the guilt I felt after having dark thoughts like those, after realizing that I actually had pleasure from just the thought of committing such a violent act, after the voice-dark, seductive-claimed how intimate it was to take the life of someone with the use of bare hands; it made me see that I was not normal. Putting aside all the abuse and rape, it was simply _not right_. It certainly didn’t explain or justify why I saw myself murdering random people in a variety of very creative forms, comparing it to making art. Well, not exactly random given how they were the same people that spat on me, threw insults at me and even manhandled me whenever my dad took me out to ‘illuminate the IS’ as he’d say. They were not exactly saints, I knew- deep in my bones I could sense the rotten innards. But even so, normal people don’t think like that. Normal people get mad, yes, we all do; that doesn’t mean that they’ll think about what would be the most effective way to rip out someone’s throat…

Other times, it wasn’t as simple as hallucinating of murdering dad. Sometimes, I pretended-No. That’s not right. I _felt_ like there was someone else with me, someone who was not my dad and I believed it was the man that would whisper to me throughout those moments. That he was doing it to me. As with the rape, it only got stronger with the years. It was not just a male voice; it was a shape now that despite my efforts of trying to give him a face, I could not conceive him completely. He was more than an idea, less than a real presence. But it felt so _real_. Suddenly, the scratch of a slight beard on my hipbone was not dads but his; the hands grabbing me were powerful yet ravenous in their touch as if they wanted to pay reverence to me, wanted to memorize every curve, corner, edge, plane of my body. The line dividing reality and fiction blurred entirely when the sensation of phantom lips ghosting the expanse of my inner thighs became the only creed I recognized and somewhere in between, pain and pleasure fused into one and I had never felt more _fulfilled_.

 _“Tell me, how would you do it?”,_ the unknown man said from a far away land.

 _“With my hands”,_ I replied silently, in my head, moaning and panting in reality.

A few minutes later, I would come and as I spent on my stomach untouched and dazed, instead of The Eye above I would see a humanoid figure, tall dark and menacing, big antlers protruding from its head. Black midnight skin and white empty sclera looked back at me with possessive intent and it hit me: I was a fucked up son of a bitch.

* * *

 

I stopped looking at my face on shiny surfaces a long time ago or more like I tried to. Before, it used to be because I really wasn’t in the mood to see the dark blemishes on arms that I would be likely sporting depending on the day. As I grew up though, it stopped being the reason why.

It was related to how, out of the blue; I’d check myself out in the mirror and see the visage of a stranger wearing my face. Same pale complexion, same mass of curly brown hair covering too wide blue eyes. But the devil was in the details and looking closely, the differences between me and whoever stared back at me through the glass were very noticeable; there was a haunted air about him, like the world had hit him hard and now he was broken beyond repair; a darkness poorly concealed in the up tilt of his mouth (my mouth), in the valleys of his (my) face that foretold stories of the horrors that rested behind his eyelids. (If I blinked I would see the shadow of stubble on cheeks, the pair of glasses perched on top of the nose like a protective barrier against the rest of the world. Another blink and I would see nothing). I hoped, with all my being, that none of those things reflected on mine, that when people looked at me they didn’t see the boy in the mirror.

One morning, while I shaved facing the sink instead of the glass, I discovered that what I had been seeing all along was no other than the side of me that liked to dream of eviscerating others, stags, and blood. The side of me that wished to sink their teeth into soft, vulnerable flesh and feel the sweet flavor of liquid life flowing into them. The side of me that sneered at dad with bloodlust screaming in their veins.

It was no stranger.

It was me.

For a second, I thought someone called me by a name that was not mine and accidentally cut my cheek with the razor. The next day I got a haircut to go along with the bandage adorning the side of my face and not even one person questioned me about it.

From that day on, I never let my hair grow too much.

* * *

 

The alcohol scorches the walls of my throat, leaving a slow burn like sensation behind. I don’t care, not when the coughing starts, not when the nausea worsens. I take swig after swig praying to The Light that this is a nightmare or one of my not rare daydreams hitting too close to home. Bricks and bricks of denial bury me five hundred feet underground and all I know for certain is that I don’t want to come out of the hole I’ve thrown myself into, afraid of facing the consequences of what I’ve done. Because no matter how far deep in denial I am, I can’t erase the sight of the cold body laying less than one feet away from where I’m sitting. The smell of blood is stuck in my nostrils, burned in memory and I’m 100% sure this is something I will carry with me for the rest of my life.

This is not the first time in the last hours that I’ve had this argument with myself, whether I should show face or keep hiding in a corner and wishing everything away.  Looking at the bright side (who am I kidding?), I could be faring much worse right now, at least I have sufficient force of will to drink my sorry ass to oblivion.  It seems like two seconds have passed since I was losing my mind in the shower, feeling again like the lost little kid I once was (the one who stared at his drawings and wondered why all of them included death in some form), scared of the demons at the top of his head and the ones waiting at home.

I want to drift off yet I’m unable to. I guess I’m also afraid of what I’ll see if I close my eyes (red everywhere, on my clothes, on the floor, on the walls, on the couch, on me) so I’d rather stay awake in this limbo of uncertainty until… I don’t know. Until I manage to put together the pieces of whatever, whoever I am and get a grip. I wonder if instead of that ceramic vase breaking, what really shattered on the floor was me.

_“Occasionally, I drop a teacup to shatter on the floor on purpose. I’m not satisfied when it doesn’t gather itself up again.”_

Yeah, no shit.

I’m not worried that I’m starting to hear voices again. This has become the norm lately and I won’t bother questioning something that just _is._ Besides, there’s no better occasion to hear incorporeal voices other than after you’ve murdered someone, apparently. I tell the man whose face I still can’t construct to fuck off and tip my head back, drink straight from the bottle. My hand, the one holding the bottle, shakes causing several drops of alcohol to make their descent down my chin. As far as coping mechanisms go- among other things- I’m very well lacking.

I’m walking the fine line between emotional shock and numbness. So much has happened in a relatively short period of time and I’m still struggling to grasp all of it: Steve, me being put in charge, Eddie’s return from 6R, Mary, Miranda Frank, Sarah, Bill and Felicia, the Ridges situation, getting the living daylights beat out of me, Alison Kemp… the list goes on and on, escalating from one heinous act to another and I can finally _proudly_ (sarcasm) add ‘murder’ to the things I have done ( ~~right~~ ) wrong in this world.

It’s worse knowing that Silas had, in fact, a point. He was right, he was definitely not wrong about me. After all, every single thing he said I have already repeated to myself constantly and persistently, over and over across the years. I’ve tortured myself long enough with self deprecating thoughts ( _I’m an alcoholic, a fake, an asshole pretending to be someone I’m not_ ) thank you very much, no need to remind me. And that’s the thing, you see. It’s not the same when you believe you’re the only one who sees how much of a fucking failure you are and then it turns out that you’re not even good at pretending for another person _sees you_ for who you are. Sees how much of a disappointment and a piece of shit I turned out to be.

The comparison to my dad felt like he’d poured a bucket of scalding water on me and it got so hard to remember he didn’t know. Or maybe he did. Maybe he had always known. I was torn in two, wanting to feel anger, wanting to feel betrayed and when he said that I was a nobody, that The Movement was dead, it was hard to keep focused and not lose control. And then he had to fucking mention my father. I completely lost it. I snapped. I had a sharp object in my hand and combined with my volatile personality, well. I fucked up. I don’t know how to explain properly what overcame me in that moment but what I do know is that it wasn’t right and I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. I just don’t want Meyerism to die. This is all I’ve had back then when I was a child, all I have as of this current time, and all I will ever have (all I can ever hope to have) and without The Movement, without The Light, I am nothing. This is my home and I’m trying to protect it with everything I can give and I doubt that there is another Meyerist out there as dedicated as I am to this. I’ve put all my efforts, my blood and sweat in the continued survival of Meyerism and I’ll be damned if I let anybody take it away from me.

I was probably thinking something along these lines when I slit Silas’s throat. Nothing else.

_~~Liar.~~ _

I do have to admit, I’m doing a shitty job of demonstrating why on earth I should be allowed to keep leading this movement. It’s so hard to find a reason to care, get out of my hideout and face the goddamn crowd, knowing that my hands literally and metaphorically are bloodied. I can’t. Not only I dared to take the life of somebody else, of another living person, but it was a fellow 10R-Silas- a man I’ve known since I can remember and I. Killed. Him. And I went all out too, hit straight where I knew he would die immediately. Stabbed right in the point where I knew he would never recover. Never survive. That my first instinct was to lash out like that… What does it say about me?

 _I’m so tired_ , I think and a short sob escapes me.

Soon after, submerged in self pity, I don’t know how or why but somehow in my hand I hold the TV remote and before I can think it through, I’m pressing the ON button. The news are on. I stare impassively in a haze, half expecting to see my tainted mug appear on the screen along with a shot of Silas’s dead body, throat cut open and glassy orbs seeing beyond the camera. That’s not what happens, obviously.

What does actually happen is way much worse.

“Breaking News: Infamous Serial Killer Caught Red Handed” reads the titular and without any logical reason, I feel a chill down my spine, a cold dread settling in the pit of my stomach. My hands are sweating profusely and I don’t know why I’m so nervous. Looking at the tacky title I wonder what kind of news channel is this, certainly not a decent one. I’m just one second away from switching to something else when the most gruesome images I’ve ever seen are displayed in sequence, one after another and I freeze in place, holding the remote in mid air. A red headed woman, a reporter maybe, is narrating the events of what exactly brought this on but for the life of me, I can’t hear a thing she’s saying. All my attention is focused on the pictures. A young man propped up on his kitchen island, several pointed and sharp utensils piercing his body in very different angles, perfectly staged-a pool of blood underneath. A blonde woman crucified upside down, eyes and mouth sewn shut. A brown haired girl, naked and mounted on a stags head. More and more show up and I notice they all have something in common asides from the ostentatious presentation: incisions on their skin, like surgery, almost as if the killer took organs from them.

The thought makes my stomach do a flip.

_I feel like I’m dreaming. This kind of murder… this is not the ‘Minnesota Shrike’. Whoever is murdering these girls, he didn’t do this. Such a disrespectful and blatant disregard for Cassie Boyle as a person… It makes my blood boil in outrage. Too cold, too unfeeling. I would dare even say it’s mocking. This bastard is making fun of us._

_I clench my fists. I wouldn’t dream of ever treating **her** like this. **Because I love her.**_

_Shaking my head to disperse the toxic thoughts away, I look back at Jack, hoping that my inner turmoil is not showing on my face._

_“Can’t tell if it’s sloppy or shrewd” he says and it sets me off like shotgun._

_“He wanted her to be found this way. It’s petulant. I almost feel like he’s mocking her” A pause “Or he’s mocking us”_

_“Where’d all his love go?”_

_“Whoever tucked Elise Nichols into bed didn’t paint this picture.” I have to point that out._

_Brian looks up from where he’s examining the corpse “_ _He took her lungs. I think she_ _was still alive when he cut them out”_

_I throw a glance at the two slices on her chest. Imagine the steady hands that did it, with calculated precision and I feel stuck in the middle ground of hating him for this monstrosity or admiring him for turning the Shrike’s style into something-_

_“Our cannibal loves women” I add in to my previous line of thought, trying to not sound defensive, knowing I failed miserably just by looking at the brief grimace on Jack’s face “He doesn’t want to destroy them. He wants to consume them. Keep some part of them inside. This girl’s killer thought she was a **pig** ” All the extreme gesticulating I’m doing is not helping me make my case._

  _Jack does not look amused “You think this is a copy cat?”_

_I look at the expanse of the field._

_“I don’t know” I admit._

_“The cannibal who killed Elise Nichols had a place to do it and no interest in field Kabuki. He has a house or two, or a cabin. Something with an antler room”_

_Finally, the cogs are starting to turn inside my head and I’m getting a better and better understanding, a clearer picture of who this man is. Of course, this understanding comes with a price and I don’t get surprised  as I, too , start echoing his emotions._

_“He has a daughter. Same age as the other girls. Same hair color, same eye color, same height, same weight” I see it then. My heart aches inside my ribcage “She’s an only child. She’s leaving home. He can’t stand the thought of losing her. She’s his Golden Ticket”_

_Despair curls around my senses and I can’t discern if it’s mine or the killer’s. Maybe it’s a combination of the two._

**_Mine. She’s mine. She belongs to me. She can’t leave me. I need her and she needs me. My precious girl!_ **

_I take a step back on wobbly legs. I can’t keep doing this. At least, not right now and I know I need to remove myself entirely from here immediately._

_I start to walk back the way I came from. I should know Jack won’t let me walk away so easily._

_“What about the Copy Cat?” the man asks, half facing me, half facing the tableau of nightmares._

_My voice shakes slightly in aggravation when I answer “An intelligent psychopath, particularly a sadist, is hard to catch” I put emphasis on every word, letting him know that pursuing this path is not the right thing to do. But if he wants a fruitless research on the other hand…”There’s no traceable motive. There’ll be no patterns. He may never kill like this again”_

_Jack doesn’t stop me from leaving again and I can’t help snapping over my shoulder “Have Dr. Lecter work up a psychological profile. You seem to be impressed with his opinion”_

The slideshow of horrors seems to go on infinitely and I can only stare in perplexed fascination at every murder, every life lost, every corpse elevated into art morphing in front of my eyes-the memory of a life I have not lived interwoven with the images.

It should worry me, the sense of strange familiarity that overwhelms me at the sight. It should worry me, how flashes of recognition ignite as I look at the girl impaled by antlers, the pierced man, the burnt girl, the rest of the crimes. It’s like I’m able to recognize the brand of this killer (artist), feel his emotions flowing into me; contempt and superiority are a major factor, I can see it. He doesn’t see his victims as equals rather as pigs or the means to an end but that doesn’t explain why he took their organs, unless…

_“He’s eating them”_

I have to wonder how the fuck I know all this just by looking at some pictures.

At last, the final murder scene appears on screen and the breath is knocked out of my chest so fast I’m left reeling. It’s a man, probably in his late forties, kneeling at the center of a church. Completely mundane and normal if one decided to ignore his glued knees to the wooden floor, gaping hole on his torso right where the heart should be, said organ resting atop his open palms in an offering gesture. His eyes have been removed and red trails fall down from empty eye sockets, giving him the I’m-crying-blood look. Slightly tanned skin seems pale and shrunken, wrinkled when it should not be and I get the vague notion that this man was bled dry to death. Strings attached to the ceiling maintain the body in position without falling over and seriously this is-This is genius. I don’t know how this man (murderer) managed to create such a scene. I don’t know why I’m not terrified of my reactions, my most definitely enchanted reactions.

For the sake of honesty, my first thought seeing these killings, this depravity of the human nature was that it was brutally gorgeous. Not horrifying or gross or even disgusting or repulsing but gorgeous. And this one, the repentant man offering his heart blindly to someone, giving himself entirely-mind, body and soul-with no concern for the consequences feels absolutely _intimate._ Different from the others in the vibes of melancholy it gives off. It calls to me, in more ways than what I’d like to admit. My heart beats in a pained rhythm and I hold my breath, an odd cloud of yearning surrounds me slowly, inch by inch, and I tear up a bit.

 It’s ridiculous and it’s not, this empathizing that I can’t turn off entirely, a bad habit that I should’ve grown out of.

However, a part of me knows the yearning I feel is not completely me channeling the killer’s emotions. It is mostly mine, the yearning. The implications of what that could possibly mean are too extreme to consider right now. A part of me should really get a fucking break. Whoever the killer was trying to reach with that scene (why I keep calling it that?) is a very unlucky person and it’s really none of my business.

Now, if only I could take my own words seriously and stop this sharp melancholy from piercing me further, change the channel, turn off the TV. The sudden need to move, to do something reckless, is unbearable. Surprisingly, throughout this ordeal, the mouth of the bottle has not touched my lips. Not even once. That should say something in itself. I ponder this for a few seconds.

Then, in the blink of an eye, the image changes to a full shot of the face of the murderer and-

The world stops turning. I stop breathing. The bottle falls from my fingers and breaks in a million pieces scattering everywhere on the floor. I’m sure a shard grazes my ankle, cutting lightly but I pay it no mind. Eyes widened and jaw hanging open, I see the elusive figure of the same man I’ve been trying to give a face to, for the past thirty years, on my TV screen. It took one second, it occurs to me as the puzzle pieces come together, it took one second to destroy everything I thought I knew.

Sharp cheekbones, regal nose, thin lips, graying blond hair and clearly European features are my inevitable unbecoming. My mind is a jumbled mess of thoughts and memories shaping themselves to accommodate the face of a man who has killed in cold blood a minimum of twelve innocent people, a man who has starred in hundreds of fantasies and fevered night dreams, whose voice I’ve heard murmuring dark musings by the shell of my ear, putting me together to tear me apart right after. This is insane.

Is this what insanity feels like?

I swallow and the thought of choking with my own spit is a tempting one. Either the world has gone out of its goddamn rockers or I have gone out of my goddamn rockers because there is no logical explanation for this convoluted nonsense, no plausible reason to explain why I’m witnessing a fictional person-that was supposed to exist only in my head-come to life right in front of my very eyes and on national TV. Pressing the heels of my hands to my eyelids, I rub repeatedly; rub so hard small dots of various colors dance in the black space of my closed eyes-a primal urge so rough and raw emerges from the darkest recesses of my mind and demands fingers to pull them out so I don’t have to see ever again the madness of the world.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Hands lower to knees, eyes open a fraction.  He’s still there, bigger than this room, bigger than myself and near impossible to ignore, like a huge pink elephant in the middle of a desert. Had I not killed a man a few hours back, I would probably be blaming this whole mess on the alcohol, inventing excuses to preserve the fragile stability of my mental state. I find I’m perfectly in sync with every nerve, every joint, every breath my body takes and I don’t think I have ever been so wholeheartedly centered on anything. It feels like I’m actually sober. Out of shock, the drunkenness has flushed out of my system, leaving me feeling very conscious and very aware that this is happening, this is real and I’m not in an alcohol induced dream.   _He_ is real.

Self possessed, I scan the bottom of the picture in search of his name, so I will know for sure this is not the product of emotional stress. In bold white letters: _Andrius Simoneit._ Strangely, all I can sense is-

_“Have Dr. Lecter work up a psychological profile. You seem to be impressed with his opinion”_

Andrius Simoneit.

Dr. Lecter. Mentioned briefly and intermittently in those rare lapses in time where I get lost in the reminiscences of someone else.

What does Dr. Lecter have to do with -Oh? They’re the same? The realization is like a kick to the gut. Cold maroon eyes, clinical smile, soothing tone, _accented voice_. _(I lose focus again)_

_It’s early morning and someone’s been knocking on my room door incessantly for the past three minutes. This is the reason why I don’t do shit like this anymore, not to mention I haven’t had one hour straight of sleep without seeing that weird feathered stag or Cassie Boyle back in the field, pierced by antlers. I’d appreciate some peace and quiet but the clock’s ticking, we don’t have much time to catch the Minnesota Shrike and the faster I get out of his head, the better._

_I open the door in just a t-shirt and boxers, expecting Jack Crawford. Instead, it’s Dr. Lecter the one standing in my porch, looking dignified and very pleased with himself. I always knew the universe had it out for me but this is crossing the line. Remembering our recent, less than amenable encounter in Jack’s office my jaw locks in place, muscles straining as I try to glimpse if there is anyone else behind the annoying psychiatrist._

_“Where’s Crawford?” I ask, making a point of not maintaining eye contact. That doesn’t mean I don’t see the small smile forming on his lips._

_“Deposed in court. The adventure will be yours and mine today” He says and okay, what the fuck? From what era does this guy come from? “May I come in?” He asks again looking over my shoulder. I take a step back, knowing there is no way of preventing the inevitable but I curse my bad luck anyway because why the fuck not? I’m different levels of ecstatic at the prospect of spending a very awkward breakfast conversation with a man that I can barely stand. Not that I’m prejudiced or anything but God, did he rub me off in the wrong way._

_First things first though, pants. No need to keep flashing my bare legs and make things even more uncomfortable._

_It turns out, the experience was not near as traumatic as I thought it would be and while a part of me still resents what Hannibal Lecter represents, the man himself is not so bad in general , putting aside his strange quirks and eccentric behavior and manner of speech._

_After I put on some pants, we sit at the table by the window. Me, fluttering gaze from one corner to the other; him, sliding gracefully into the opposite chair and setting a bag on the table and-Okay. He brought breakfast, apparently handmade too. A+ for effort, Dr. Lecter, you win this round. This is something I repeat mentally (and much less sarcastically) when I take a bite of the scrambled eggs he made and for everything that is holy and pure in this world, it tastes like heaven. Hallelujah!_

_I tell him just so ”It’s delicious” and thank him for it because I’m not a completely unrepentant asshole and for real, the man made the best meal I’ve ever had, hands down. I wonder if he’s this way, so meticulous and calculated, in everything he does._

_“My pleasure”_

_I take another bite as he says “I would apologize for my analytical ambush but I know I will be soon apologizing again and you’ll tire of that eventually so I have to consider using apologies sparingly” Of course he has to remind me he’s a shrink as I’m starting to actually like him._

_I frown slightly “Just keep it professional” No need to subject myself and him to unnecessary, not to mention useless social interactions that will most likely lead us nowhere in the best case scenario, a stalemate where we’ll both get pretty fed up with each other’s existence._

_“Or” he counters, like there’s something to counter “we could socialize like adults, god forbid we become friendly” He sounds so amused and I can honestly admit that I’m feeling anything but._

_I try to imagine such an unlikely scenario: the two us reaching a point where we not only tolerate our presences in each other’s lives, also encouraging the continued occurrences of moments spent in the others company and having extended conversations about… The mere thought is so strange and far-fetched that I need to suppress a snort. I’m sure he would consider it rude._

_“I don’t find you that interesting” Out of all the things I could have said, that is the first that comes naturally to me and the lie feels so wrong rolling on my tongue. Despite my hesitant dislike and wariness towards him, being ‘uninteresting’ is not a label I would attach to Hannibal Lecter. Not with those fancy suits, the accent that I still can’t place, the prestigious job and the crazy good cooking skills. He can be anything but boring, to be honest._

_Right on cue, he smiles, self assured and I get the first peak I’ll ever have, the first of many, to whatever’s coiled inside him._

_“You will”_

_A shiver runs down my spine._

The read headed reporter is droning on about something important, maybe the murders or his biography or whatever and it’s probably important information that could help me understand what the hell is going on but I can’t concentrate. Not when the flashbacks are assaulting me persistently, I’m not even sure they’re supposed to be flashbacks, all I know clearly is that I’ve never lived them; felt them-remembered them?-as well as I do right now, it is too real, too close, too much. My hand shakes and it’s a miracle the control does not slip, rivulets of sweat on my skin in spite of the cool temperature.

Somewhere else on the compound, Bill and Felicia are throwing my hard work around like it’s nothing, like it means nothing and here I am, alone, delusional and raving mad about an Andrius Simoneit whom I’ve never fucking met-no matter what my feverish mind is conjuring up- and let’s not forget about the dead man rotting away on my floor. I should have recovered by now, although, if anything I just worsened.

Can’t anything ever go right, is that too much to ask?

Literally not even twenty seconds have passed since I thought the question and the universe is already proving me that yes, nothing can ever go right, and yes, it can be worse. It will be worse. Because, now the annoying woman-she irks me okay, I can’t explain why, listening to her is like listening to nails on a chalkboard-is presenting some footage from earlier today, found in a suspiciously convenient videocamera left at the crime scene. Darkness is the only visible thing for a few seconds and then, it changes and right there, standing imposingly is _him._ Like in the picture, the hair is wrong (it’s too long) and so are the clothes (too common) but I know it’s him. His hands are behind his back and that’s normal, I think, for him; I can picture him, hair shorter, a gash on his cheek wearing a grey prison suit and again, yearning and nostalgia strike me like a stab to the face and fuck me, that metaphor makes me feel even more nostalgic.

He’s speaking. The video has a duration of one minute. One minute is enough to wreck me.

“Are you listening?” He starts and any lingering doubt is gone as my heart does a funny thing at the sound of his familiar voice. He continues “Listen very closely. I’m going to say this only once for I have not much time left and time, as you must know, is of the essence” A dramatical pause, his shark eyes drilling holes in the camera lenses “Light is nothing more than the absence  of darkness. Likewise, darkness is merely a lack of illumination. Would it not be most logical to say, then, that the existence of both, dark and light, is relative? It’s dependant on the subjectivity of individuals, and therefore one could argue that _Light in itself does not truly exist”._

There is no Light. In a few words resumed the true intent of what he said. Son of a-

I take a deep breath, bite my knuckles until I draw blood, anger and disbelief simmering inside my veins. To those out there, I know, everything he said must have sounded like a big mash up of bullshit and crazy ramblings of a mad man, because they don’t know. And I do. The arrow was not meant for them after all, the message could not have been clearer to me; he basically called out The Movement, called _me_ out, a blatant challenge in the face of the entire country, witnesses to an exchange that they can’t hope to understand (even I’m struggling to understand despite being the one involved). Then it occurs to me the interview I did a few weeks back, how concerned everyone was given the exposure it would bring to Meyerism and now I have to wonder if I am not the only one who one day put on the news, unraveling a chain of events that would follow up to the murder of a man in a church and the incarceration of another (I have to wonder if seeing me affected him as much as seeing him affected me). Maybe a part of me wishes the connection was a two way road, that he was tormented just like I was, like I still am, with thousands and thousands of fragments belonging to a life of a stranger who wore his face, called himself Dr. Hannibal Lecter and somehow, collided inevitably with a much more tortured version of myself, with a Will Graham, foretelling this precise moment in time where they/we are supposed to collide time after time.

“To some” he adds, after he has deliberately made the longest break ever “Take that as you will, however, that was not my intended message. Even the sharpest of minds can get sidetracked on occasion, I suppose. I simply could not resist” Of course he couldn’t, the unexpected part is the strange boast of ego coming from him so directly; a trait, perhaps, reinforced with the passage of years.

His dead eyes shift to a quiet intensity, it reminds me of the look one would give a prized possession, all consuming, absorbing and intoxicating. It reminds me of bloody hands under the eerie glow of moonlight. It’s unsettling at best but what comes next is what truly fractures me “ _I want you to know exactly where I am and where you can always find me”_

Out of nowhere, the ground starts shaking uncontrollably, the violent movements throwing my body around in every direction like a rag doll. My head is lulling from side to side and for a second I fear it’s going to fall off my neck. A bitter taste fills my taste buds and I know I must have bitten my tongue. To say I’m confused would be an understatement; I can’t even remember the last time an earthquake hit New York was, it doesn’t make sense. It’s only when I claw at my clothed knees trying to hold onto something and try to get my bearings back that I understand that nothing else in the room is moving. It’s me. I’m the one shaking, not the earth.

I may be having a seizure.

Stuffed inside a freezing washing machine, that’s how I feel, with eyes rolling to the back of my head, I swear I can hear him talking over the constant ringing that has overtaken my ears. Only him, there is only him as I trash, and sweat and tremble in a fit, my brain acting like a fucking heart, pulsing convulsively, burning and hurting. I want to pull it out but I’m unable to control my limbs.

There is him, me, an office, his hand on my shoulder and a promise to be my paddle at all times. Then, there is a shared promise to protect a girl. Then, there is trust and madness. Then, there is the mutual acknowledgment of betrayal and seeing each other truly for what we are. Then, there is a game of seduction, lies and fishing and luring, but underneath all of those things, there is a transformation.

Then, there is nothing.

The last thing I hear before losing consciousness is

_“Someday, perhaps, a cup will come together.”_

**Author's Note:**

> You're welcome to yell at me too at www.thirstyforhughdancy.tumblr.com or if you want to talk to me about anything related to Hannibal or The Path or the fic don't feel afraid to do so! I don't bite (much). And remember kudos and comments give lots of encouragement and bursts of self esteem to writers in order to update faster <3


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